


We Shall New Shadows Make the Other Way

by MlleClaudine



Series: Cophine [5]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Expansion, F/F, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Content, lots of PDA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cophine road trip, of sorts. Takes place starting almost immediately after their last scene in s02e05. Just a little mostly (... mostly) lighthearted interval before the anvils and hammers start flying again. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!</p><p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You're doing it again."

Shifting a bit against our rolled-up coats bolstering my lower back and the pile of airline pillows padding the fuselage behind me, I resettle Cosima in my arms. She lies tucked neatly at my side, our tangled legs extending across the width of our seats. My hip flexors are starting to complain, but I would bear with far more stringent discomfort as long as I could hold her. I kiss her softly on the temple. "Doing what, chérie?"

She burrows into the curve of my neck. "Staring at my injection site. You know as well as I do that if I were going to react, it probably would have happened hours ago. Trust me, if it were bothering me or, like, starting to grow a face or something, I'd let you know."

"Just making sure." The needle mark at her deltoid is already nearly invisible, a tiny speck of red in the center of a miniature island of induration. Carefully I trace with my fingertips the surrounding pale olive skin, feeling for any sign of swelling or calor and finding none.

"Circle, circle, dot, dot, now I've got my cootie shot," she says, giggling against my chest.

"What?"

"Nothing, just a silly playground rhyme." Reaching out from under the blanket draped over our laps, she undoes one of the buttons on my shirt placket and slides her hand inside the gap to rest it flat on my belly. Her touch is electric against my skin, the deep muscles leaping instantly beneath her palm and sending my pulse racing.

"Sois sage, petite merdeuse!" I hiss, grabbing her wrist. The corporate-type in the seat across the aisle from us glances up at the sudden movement, stares, then looks away, his face flushing.

She tickles the side of my waist, making me squirm. "Aw, c'mon, Delphine. You've never wanted to join the mile high club?"

"Not while sitting in the middle of a full Business Class section on a two-hour commercial flight. Maybe on an international trip in one of Dyad's private jets, if I ever get important enough to warrant having one on call."

"It's a date." Soft lips languidly scatter kisses all over my neck and throat. "There's always the lavatory."

"With paper thin walls and no room to move? No, thank you."

Careful teeth close over the junction of my neck and shoulder hard enough to sting, followed by the exquisitely gentle soothing of her tongue. I shiver deliciously. "Don't need room," she burrs into my ear, her voice pitched low barely within my hearing. "Just you up against the door with one leg over my shoulder while I eat you out so you come all over my face for like the entire rest of the trip."

"Brat!"

Cosima smiles at the frisson of desire that works its way through me. "I would have thought you'd object more to the sanitary conditions. Or the lack thereof, Dr. Germophobe."

"Very funny." I pinch her bottom, eliciting a halfhearted squawk of protest; leaving my hand in place, I cup and caress the firm warm curves of her buttocks through the clingy material of her pants. "Airplane bathrooms are surprisingly innocuous when it comes to harboring pathological organisms. A friend and I did a study in one of my microbiology classes, culturing surfaces in all kinds of public places. We found that the filthiest things on a plane are actually the tray tables."

"Hence the spray bottle of quat in your purse."

"Hence." Absently I kiss her forehead, my lips brushing the tiny fine curling tendrils at her hairline. "What are we going to do when we get to Minneapolis?"

"You don't have to do a thing if you don't want to. I have to ship myself the books and notes I need for my coursework, the rest of my clothes, stuff like that. Everything I don't give away to my neighbors, I'll have the Dyad goons pack up and transport to your place. If that's still cool with you."

"Of course, chérie."

"I'd like to check in with Dr. Hammill, get her opinion on some of my research and show her the progress I've made with my diss. And afterward I'll take you out for dinner, then bring you back to the apartment and fuck you senseless until we have to leave for the airport in the morning."

Laughing, I squeeze her and nuzzle her hair. "I thoroughly approve of your plan."

We sit in contented silence for a while, listening to the rumble and whine of the plane's engines. An attendant serves us glasses of a quite decent Sauvignon blanc and a selection of cheeses and crackers as well as some fresh fruit. "Dude, I will totally admit that you were right. This is way nicer than getting handed, like, a packet of peanuts and a plastic cup of mostly ice back in Coach," she says, feeding me a grape; the taut skin of the little globe bursts between my teeth, flooding my mouth with cool sweetness and leaving behind a faintly astringent sensation on my tongue. "Not that I fly a whole lot anyway, because airlines are unreasonable asshats about not letting you bring weed on board, but if you have to, this is definitely the way to go."

I kiss her, letting the flavors of the grape and the wine mingle with those of the strawberry and the bite of Manchego that she has just eaten. "Getting paid an exorbitant salary has to be good for something, yes?"

"I guess. I'm still kind of wrapping my brain around it. My parents are academics; when I was growing up, we weren't exactly poor, but we weren't exactly rolling in it, either. I'm not used to being able to buy what I want without having to think first about whether I'll be able to pay rent or afford groceries for the next month, much less spring for a couple of last-minute plane tickets that cost almost what I used to earn in half a semester."

Idly I trail my fingers up and down her arm, fascinated by the way the silky skin goose-pimples in the wake of my touch. "Now that you're actually making serious money, you should speak with an investment consultant about learning how to manage it. Letting it sit in a checking account is the financial equivalent of stuffing it under the mattress."

"You're assuming I'm going to hang around long enough to actually benefit from it."

Ice water cataracts down my spine.

"Hey." Cosima hitches herself partly upright, her eyebrows swooping together above her glasses. "Delphine? Are you okay? Your whole body just went, like, totally rigid. You're kinda creeping me out right now."

I search her face urgently. "Is that what this is, why you decided to squander a bunch of money on this trip? Because you're giving up?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh, fuck." Sitting up and straddling me, she gnarls her hands into my hair and pulls me into a ferocious kiss, her mouth bruisingly hard on mine. A sound suspiciously like a whimper escapes me only to get muffled against her lips. I clutch inelegantly at her, needing the tactile reassurance of her slender form; one hand finds its way under the hem of her gray lace tanktop, the other beneath the curtain of her dreads to clasp the back of her neck.

Breaking off the kiss, panting lightly, she rests her forehead against mine. "Shit, Delphine, it was just a stupid joke, I didn't mean to scare you." She sits back, perching on top of my thighs; smiling ruefully at me, she gently wipes the tears from my face. "Jeannie in HRM told me that I needed to use my relocation stipend before my three-month mark or I'd forfeit it. I know I've got a couple months to go, but I figured there was no point in continuing to pay for an apartment that I'm not using. And since I needed to come out here anyway, I thought it would be fun to spend some of it on an all out splurge."

Laughing shakily and sniffling, I wipe my runny nose on a napkin. "I'm sorry for overreacting, chérie."

Carefully settling across my lap, she nestles her face against my throat, wreathing her arms around my waist; I hold her tightly, feeling her heartbeat slowing along with mine. "My bad for not cluing you in on my train of thought. But," she says, moving to interlace the fingers of one hand with mine, "if I were going to blow my wad in preparation for the end, you think I'd pick _Minnesota_ in _December_ as my destination?"

"You have a point." I reach for my glass and let the wine wash away the metallic taste of anxiety and fear, then hold it so she can take a sip as well. Finding the edge of our now crumpled blanket, I pull it back up over us.

"Besides, I've got too much shit to do before I check out." She plays her thumb over my palm. Softly she kisses the tender spot below my ear. "I've watched Jennifer's tapes three times now, and every time I just get more pissed off. Everything that Nealon tried — surgery, chemo, radiation, targeted therapy, even hyperthermia and photodynamic therapy — none of the conventional methods worked or had any significant effect, and yet he kept going even when he knew that most of her clinical signs and the rapidity of her physical decline were due to side effects of the treatments."

"He couldn't have known what he was dealing with at first."

"Right, but he's a hammer, and to a hammer, everything looks like a nail. We need to be way more precise. I have a lot of ideas for different approaches to pursue. I owe Jennifer that much, I think."

I resume stroking her arm, breathing in the scent of her hair. "That 5 out of 6 HLA stem cell match Aldous found is a good place to start."

"Yeah. It may not be the ultimate cure, but it'll probably buy me some time. Assuming that I survive the transplant and it actually takes."

Sarah is not the only one in the family who tends to have a dark outlook on life, it seems. "So if Minnesota in winter is not your dream destination, where would you go, what would you do?" I say, wanting to keep her mood lighter.

"If I were about to bite the big one? Well, first of all, I'd throw a huge party while I was still feeling good enough to enjoy it. Nothing too elaborate, just a gathering of everyone I love. Probably at Felix's, he's the best host. We'd get Bobby to bartend, and that hot DJ from Crews. Get everybody drunk and high and so horny from dancing that they'd all be slinking off to dark corners to fuck. Then when no one was looking, you and I would sneak out and commandeer Dyad's schmanciest private jet to fly us to Cancún.

"There's this island off the Yucatàn peninsula, it's, like, a nature preserve so there's almost no one around, and the only way to get there is by ferry from a little town called Chiquila on the mainland. We would get a tiny rundown shack on the beach where we could watch the whale sharks and cormorants and flamingos from our porch, eat guavas and huayas and black sapotes and pitahayas by the bushel, fall into bed to make love until we pass out, then wake up in the morning and do it all over again. Repeat ad libitum, ad infinitum, or at least until my body shuts down."

Suppressing a shudder, I hold her close, listening as her words slow and begin to slur. It is not long before she falls asleep, no doubt giving in to the fatigue induced by the tensions and emotional excesses of the past few days. Her respiratory rate and effort are normal, with none of the stridor that has plagued her recently. I'd been concerned that the plane's dry recirculated air would irritate her trachea and lungs, but so far it does not seem to be bothering her.

An attendant removes our wineglasses and the remains of the light meal on our tray, then hands me a pair of Customs declaration forms. Not wanting to disturb Cosima, I fill out hers as well as mine while she drowses in my embrace.

All too soon the pilot announces that we are beginning the descent to MSP. I manage to fasten the buckle from my seatbelt to the latch from hers across both of us. Our attendant evidently considers us to be complying with the letter of the law and leaves us undisturbed with a don't-worry-I've-seen-everything smile.

Cosima does not rouse even when we touch down, bouncing and jerking slightly until the wheels grab the asphalt; as the plane taxies to a crawl, I look out the window at the grey lowering skies, the lines and symbols and lights marking the runways, the swarms of heavily coverall-clad ground personnel already in action. Only when we have come to a halt and the door to the jetway sighs open do I shake her gently by the arm. "Wake up, chérie, we're here."


	2. Chapter 2

I am resigned to the fact that she will never give up smoking prodigious amounts of weed. I've grown accustomed to her habit of warming her cold feet in bed by tucking them between my legs or behind my knees. I find it cute that she leaves her jewelry scattered like breadcrumbs around my flat, though it's considerably less cute if I happen to stumble over a particularly chunky ring or bracelet on the floor before I'm fully awake in the morning. I can forgive her blatant though usually charming theft of at least half of every dessert I order. But I have finally found a truly insurmountable flaw.

Cosima drives like a grandmother.

Well, someone else's grandmother. Until her eyesight began to fail when she was in her mid-60s, Mémé drove her Citroën SM like a thief being pursued by the gendarmes. By the time I was twelve, she had taught me not only how to drive it but also how to corner by heel-and-toeing with its odd button-shaped brake pedal, getting the most out of the sleek car's otherworldly road handling ability and its smooth, precisely notchy gearshift. She and her mechanic conspired to tune the rumbling Maserati V6 engine so it could consistently exceed the factory top speed, which we frequently exploited on long rambling drives during my vacation visits home. Over forty years old now, it still runs perfectly; I keep it garaged at my parents' house in Lille, my younger brother Jean-Hugues sworn on pain of dismemberment to drive it at least once a month and strictly follow its maintenance schedule.

Watching Cosima behind the wheel of the little rented Prius makes my teeth clench involuntarily. It's not that she is an unsafe driver — quite the opposite, actually. It took her longer to adjust the mirrors and seat to her satisfaction than it did to Bluetooth her phone to the sound system. Now the cramped interior pulses softly to the rhythmic beat of one of her favorite artists while she tests the functions of every single button and switch, then slowly pulls out of the rental lot toward the airport exit.

Consciously refraining from jamming my foot into a phantom accelerator pedal as we creep along the on-ramp to the highway, I thank the traffic gods that it is not yet rush hour. Still, by the time we have finally approached the speed limit, no fewer than five cars have swerved around us, trailed by the Doppler effect of their indignantly blaring horns.

She stares straight ahead, her mouth compressed in a straight line, sitting upright and so far forward that the steering wheel is nearly in her lap. Her hunched shoulders virtually shout with tension, especially whenever she is forced to change lanes, which she does with her head jerking metronomically from the rearview to the side mirrors and back.

Luckily, it is not long before we turn off onto surface streets, where her overly cautious driving style fares much better, probably because she is no longer vibrating with stress. Coasting to a stop long before a yellow light turns red, she gives me an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, I'm not used to doing a lot of highway driving. Makes me nervous because my peripheral vision is so bad."

"I couldn't tell at all."

Cutting a sideways glance at me, she makes the turn onto her street. "Bullshit. There are fingernail marks in your armrest." Catching sight of an open space, she pulls in beside and partly in front of it. Before I can say that I think it looks a little too tight, she has quickly and adroitly slotted the car into the spot, perfectly aligned front to back and barely six inches off the curb. She smirks at my expression. "I learned to drive in San Francisco, remember. My parents wouldn't let me get my license or drive on my own until I could parallel park in either direction on Bradford, the steepest street in the city."

"I'm impressed."

"I might have, like, burned out the clutch on their VW Rabbit a couple times before I could actually do it, though."

I laugh, getting out and reaching for her hand. Fingers twined together, we stroll down the block to her building, looking up at its decorative brickwork and the bay window of her apartment. "I loved this place," she says, wistfulness coloring her voice.

"I know. I'm sorry," I say inadequately.

Her hand squeezes mine. "We've been over that, yeah?"

I lean in to brush a kiss across her lips. Hand in hand, we enter the massive front door, which swings closed behind us with a heavy muffled thud. Our heels ring loudly on the wide old pine floorboards, battered over the years to a faded golden glow. As we start to climb the ornately carved dark wood staircase, we meet a gangling young man thundering down from the upper floor, a heavy overstuffed backpack slung over his shoulder. He comes to an abrupt halt on the landing above us, his mouth gaping in almost comical astonishment. "Cosima!"

"Hey, Matt." She gives him a little wave.

He recovers, tossing his head to shake the messy flop of dark brown curls out of his eyes. The gesture is completely artless, with no sign of flirtation or posturing; I diagnose the tunnel vision and forgetfulness of the born academic and suspect that he is simply very overdue for a haircut. "Where have you been? Everyone thought you might be, um — "

"Like, dead, or something?" Her mouth curves into an ironic crooked smile. "Not quite yet. Had to move for, ah, work; I'm just here to pack up my shit. Hey, listen, if you need any furniture, come by tonight and pick out what you want."

The long narrow face lights up. He is not handsome, but his unbridled enthusiasm gives him an odd gawky appeal, like a half-grown puppy of some very large breed. "Cool, thanks! Uh, listen, I gotta run, I've got a class."

"Go, go. Later, dude."

"See you." Bounding down the stairs three at a time, we hear his footsteps pounding through the hallway.

She shakes her head fondly. "Nice kid. Zero social skills, but he's like scary brilliant. Computational engineering."

We pause outside her apartment. I almost expect her to just reach for the knob — whenever I had come over to visit, her door had never once been actually locked — but she rummages in her purse and extracts the key from the coin compartment of her wallet. Letting the door swing wide, she waves me inside with a sweep of her arm.

I walk in hesitantly, shedding my coat and looking around. Everywhere are signs of her hasty departure: random desk and dresser drawers left open, a few dirty dishes still in the sink, clothes heaped on the bed and tossed over chairs. Her once vibrant potted plants are now droopy, the tips of their leaves crispy and brown. Already there is a thin film of dust over every surface, the air tinged with the faintly stale smell of disuse.

"Kind of a disaster, huh," she says, wrapping an arm around my waist, leaning against me.

I drape my arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple. "It's not that bad. Where do you want to start?"

Turning up her face to intercept my mouth, she kisses me lingeringly. "Actually, I think I'll drop in on Dr. H first, make sure I catch her in her office before she takes off for the day. Then I need to get some boxes and tape and stuff. Stay here if you like, I won't be long."

"Okay."

In the bedroom alcove, I collect her clothing, emptying the closet and drawers and sorting and folding until everything is in neat piles. The contents of her laundry basket go into a clean trash bag from a bathroom cabinet. Going to the kitchen area, I contemplate the furry growth colonizing the bowl and plate in the sink and sigh. Running the faucet until the water heats up, I rinse the inchoate life-form down the drain, then plug in the stopper, adding a splash of bleach from a jug I find beneath the counter and a squirt of dish soap as the sink fills.

With the dishes and utensils soaking, I decide there's not much else I can do at the moment so I might as well go get some coffee. I grab my coat and purse, then realize that Cosima still has her key. After a brief debate, I reason that anything of value to a would-be thief is either in my flat or on her person. Sending her a text to let her know where I'm going, I leave the apartment, shutting the door behind me.

Too late, I remember that I'm dressed for Toronto's far more temperate weather, the difference especially evident now that the sun is starting to set. The wind bites through to my bones as though my coat and scarf had suddenly turned to mesh; the damp heavy atmosphere smells of impending snow. It's only a few blocks to Espresso Exposé but I'm thoroughly chilled by the time I get there, run-walking the whole way. Catching my breath, I hold my hands over my face to thaw out my nose and cheeks.

"Delphine?"

The voice is familiar but I can't quite place it. Turning, I see Cosima's friend Scott, smiling uncertainly and waving at me. I wave back and go over to his table, where he is having soup and a pastry while working on his laptop. "Hello, Scott."

"W-what are you doing here?"

Sitting opposite from him, I raise an eyebrow. "Getting coffee."

His open, utterly guileless face turns bright red. "I meant, uh, what are you, um, why are you — "

I smile, which makes him blush even more furiously. "I'm just kidding, Scott. Cosima and I are in town for the day."

He blinks, eyes rounding widely behind his glasses. "Cosima's here?" Good manners prevent him from looking around behind me.

"She's talking with her advisor now."

"Oh." He deflates visibly. I find his not-so-secret crush on her to be one of the most endearing things about him.

An idea starts to crystallize. "Have you considered applying for a job at Dyad?"

"I sent in my resume a few weeks ago when Co — um, a few weeks ago, but I haven't heard anything yet."

"Resubmit it as soon as possible, along with a request to work specifically for Cosima, and flag it to my attention. I'll make sure it gets to Dr. Leekie."

"Dr. Leekie, wow." Rocking back in his chair, he tilts his head. "That would be awesome, but... why?"

I lean forward on my elbows. "Because Cosima knows you and trusts the quality of your work. She's going to be extremely busy with research very soon and we — euh, she will need someone who can handle all the technical tasks in her lab. It will be challenging, but I know that you're more than capable." _And that you would walk barefoot over broken glass if she asked you to._

Beaming, he reaches a hand across the table; I shake it solemnly. "All right, I'll get on it right away."

"Good. Just one thing," I say as I get up. "Don't mention that we had this conversation. I want it to be a surprise for her."

"O-okay."

"See you soon, Scott."

"Bye... Delphine."


	3. Chapter 3

Drink carrier in hand, deeply regretting my lack of gloves, I rush back to the apartment. The downstairs entryway is blessedly warm. I unfasten my coat and bask for a minute next to the hallway radiator as it softly hisses and clanks, shimmering with heat.

Heading up the stairs, I can hear Renée Fleming's plush soprano soaring over a harpsichord, strings and continuo. _Di' cor mio, quanto t'ama..._ I open the door, confirming that Cosima's stereo is indeed the source of the music.

She looks up from where she is sitting cross-legged on the floor assembling cardboard boxes and gives me a brilliant smile. "Hey, babe."

"Hey, yourself." I bend to kiss her softly. "Lee said you would like this. It's butter rum chai." Giving her her cup, I wrap my hands around mine, its contents miraculously still hot. "I was surprised he recognized me; I've only been there a couple times with you."

"Dude, are you kidding me? You're, like, instantly memorable. Oh, man, that tastes almost as good as you do."

"Bee charmer."

"Bzzzzzt. Here, see for yourself." She pulls me down into another kiss, the sweetness and spiciness of her tea consorting amiably with the darker, faintly bitter notes of my coffee.

"Mmm, very nice." Shrugging out of my coat and tossing it next to hers on top of her desk, I kneel beside her, unfolding each flattened box in turn so she can tape and reinforce the bottom seam, then adding it to the pile waiting to be filled. "I had no idea you listened to classical, much less Baroque opera."

"I know, it's not my usual thing. You should hear Sarah when she gets going about what she calls my 'beeps and boops.'" Cosima smiles wryly. "Opera was kind of an unexpected detour for me. My parents weren't really interested in music, and I was only into the stuff that moved me viscerally, stuff that you can dance to and get lost in. Freshman year in college, this girl I was sort of dating took me to an SFO performance of 'Rosenkavalier.' I'd spent most of the week before bitching and moaning to my friends about how I was getting dragged to the _opera_ , oh my gawd it's gonna be so _boooooring_ , I'm not sure I even _like_ this girl that much, and so on."

"So you were even more of an insufferable brat back then?"

"Ha, ha. I have to admit I was acting like a total ass about it, partly because I was feeling a little guilty that I'd been thinking of breaking up with her and here she'd gone and bought really nice Grand Tier seats for this thing that I didn't want to go to and hadn't bothered to dress up for. And then the overture started and I was, like, riveted. At the time I didn't know that it was musically depicting the Marschallin getting it on with Octavian. I just knew that it was gorgeous and weirdly thrilling, and when the curtain came up there were two women in bed who had clearly just been doing it, then in act 2 Susan Graham fell madly in love with another girl, then there was practically like an all girl threesome for half of act 3."

I start to giggle uncontrollably. "I don't think that's quite what Strauss and Hofmannsthal had in mind."

"Maybe not, but it's way hotter if you completely ignore that you're supposed to accept that one of the girls is actually a teenaged boy. To hell with suspension of disbelief when two beautiful women are making out onstage, you know?"

"You are entirely too cute." Stalking her on all fours, I claim her mouth, lazily tangling my tongue with hers. "So. Cherubino, Sesto, Romeo, Ramiro, Orfeo?"

"Yep. All chicks sexing it up with chicks. Especially in this opera," she says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of her stereo. "Are you familiar with 'Alcina'?"

"Handel, isn't it? I've heard of it but no, I don't really know the piece."

"Alcina is this hot, badass sorceress who seduces men and then transforms them into, like, animals and trees and rocks and things when she gets tired of them. Her latest lover is Ruggiero, who's so bewitched by Alcina's magical cooch that he totally blows off his fiancée Bradamante and his military career. Bradamante comes looking for him and gets shipwrecked on Alcina's island, only for some reason she goes around dressed as her brother Ricciardo. And of course Ruggiero is –- "

"A chick sexing it up with a chick?"

"Bingo. But Bradamante's like the most masculine figure in the entire thing. Alcina's sister Morgana takes one look at her disguised as a dude and falls in love."

"It sounds very complicated."

"Oh, it is. Handel's totally the godfather of genderfuck and convoluted plotlines that don't make a lot of sense if you think about them too much. But the music is amazing."

I smile, sliding a hand beneath her dreads to caress the nape of her neck. "Your opera commentary is what's amazing. And speaking of magical cooches..."

***********************************************************************************************

"No. No more." A hand weakly pushes my mouth aside. "If this is your idea of helping me pack, I'm never going to get anything done."

Resting my head on her trembling thigh, I playfully direct a stream of air over highly sensitized flesh to make her gasp and writhe. The scent of her is dizzying. "I didn't hear any objections while I was 'helping' you a moment ago. Or any of the other times prior to that."

"You 'help' me any more and I won't be able to walk straight, never mind finish what I need to do here."

Idly she strokes my hair. I press my lips to the inside of her wrist, taking in the faint trace of perfume and the salt of her skin. Over the surround-sound speakers, Ruggiero has betrayed Alcina, whose ranting takes the form of furious arpeggios and runs buoyed by Fleming's phenomenal breath control. "What happened with the girl?"

"Which girl?"

"The one who — what is the phrase you like to use? — the one who took your opera cherry."

"Marissa? She broke up with me not much later. Said that she'd decided that women were a phase she was done with and started dating dudes exclusively. I didn't hear from her for years, then one day I got a wedding invitation from her in the mail."

"Did you attend?"

"Let's just say that instead of the RSVP card, I sent an extreme closeup pic of what you're looking at right now."

Laughing, I carefully free my fingers, placing a butterfly-delicate kiss at each junction of hip and thigh before getting stiffly to my feet. I roll my neck and shoulders to try to loosen them, then brush the dust off my shirt and pants. Cosima holds up her hands, which I use to pull her upright and into my embrace. Her arms drape around my neck while mine slide around her waist, snugging her hips close and letting her taste herself all over my face.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?" she murmurs.

"You were the one who said you didn't want any distractions."

She kisses me again, softly caressing the inside of my lower lip with the tip of her tongue. "You're distracting just by the fact that you exist, Dr. Cormier."

"Shameless flatterer."

"Nope. Merely stating a fact." Propelling me backward until I land with an _ouf!_ in the armchair near the door, she nips me on the tip of my nose. "Now stay put. This shouldn't take long, I promise."

Watching her move with her customary unselfconscious grace as she rummages through her many piles of books in the corners of the room is powerfully alluring. She bends over, giving me a nice view of firm rounded buttocks framing the ripe split of her sex; I whistle appreciatively, earning a narrow-eyed glare.

To occupy my attention elsewhere, anywhere besides the insistently thrumming yowl of liquid heat between my legs, I pull my phone out of my purse, noting that Scott has been as good as his word: his resubmitted application has already been forwarded to me from HRM. I send his cover letter and resume to Aldous, attaching a hastily written note and marking it Urgent. That done, I browse the Met Opera schedule with the half-formed idea of taking her to New York for a weekend getaway. A loud thud startles me, making me jump.

"Cosima, what are you doing?"

"Um. Packing my books?"

"Not like that, you can't just throw them randomly into the box, they'll get all deranged and the pages will wrinkle and tear. Besides, it's not an efficient use of space."

She cocks her head; every line of her body and even the swing of her dreads somehow manages to convey exasperation. "Fine. Show me how you would do it."

I slip my phone back into my purse and go over to her, pulling out the jumbled mess to empty the box onto the floor. "Is this everything that you need immediately?"

"The essentials, yeah. There are some others that I refer to occasionally, but they're not nearly as critical."

"Well, get them. You should be able to fit at least twice as many as this in here."

"Fine." I swear I can actually hear her eyes rolling. A stack of books thumps beside me, raising a little cloud of dust from the rug and making me sneeze. "Sorry."

"You don't sound the least bit apologetic."

Dropping more books on the floor, she winds her fingers into my hair and kisses me deeply. I'm a little lightheaded by the time she straightens up with a smirk. "There, that's the rest of them."

"Okay." Quickly I sort the books by size. Arranging her ring binders with the spines on alternating sides, I tape them together so that they make an almost perfectly cuboid bundle. Starting with the biggest, heaviest books and the binders at the bottom, I layer piles of books into the box, slotting some individual volumes in vertically to fill spaces as needed, until they're all tightly in place. "I need one more book that's about this long and wide," I say, indicating the dimensions with my hands.

After a brief search, Cosima digs up a battered hardcover copy of _A Canticle for Leibowitz_. The edges of the pages are yellowing, the jacket is missing and one of the covers is a little loose; clearly this is an old friend. I'm no expert, but it looks like it could be an original edition. To protect it, I carefully wrap it like a present in several layers of heavy brown paper cut from a grocery bag, then nestle it into the sole remaining space in the box. Closing the top flaps and taping them securely, I sit back on my heels and look smugly up at her. "Et voilà."

"That's amazing. I'll bet you're killer at Tetris."

"At what?"

In short order, I find myself seated at her desk, staring at the screen of her laptop while I manipulate little falling colored blocks with the arrow keys. Soft lips explore the nape of my neck, sending shivery tremors down my spine. "Now who's being distracting," I say, rotating a J-shaped tetrimino just in time to drop it into a gap and clear a triple.

"It's a good thing that you're so fucking hot and adorable, Dr. Cormier." Slowly she unbuttons my shirt. "Otherwise I'd probably be pissed that you beat my high score the first time you ever played this game."

I start to object, but her mouth finds mine, effectively silencing not only any argument but also most coherent thought as her hands drift lower.


	4. Chapter 4

"Shit!" She sits up abruptly, letting a rush of cool air in under the covers that feels good against my heated skin.

"Mmm?"

"I just realized that I packed like all of my clothes."

The delightful warmth and scent of her, the heady mingled aromas of sex and clean sweat, and the postcoital lassitude suffusing my body all conspire to make my brain contentedly fuzzy and slow. Obviously I'm missing something. " ... Wasn't that one of the reasons we came out here?"

"No, I mean I packed _all_ my clothes except for what I had on today. I got so focused on getting everything boxed up that I forgot to set aside something for later, let alone tomorrow."

I let my gaze rove over the smooth curves, dips and planes of her bared torso, the defined muscles of the arm propping her upright, her peerless skin gleaming in the dimmed lamplight. "I don't know, I'm rather enjoying what you're wearing right now."

She squints at me. "Very suave, Dr. Cormier. But somehow I doubt that either the restaurant or the airline would agree."

Tugging at her arm to pull her back down, I wordlessly urge her to snuggle once more against my side. I resettle the duvet around her and kiss her forehead. "Do you want me to call the courier? He might not have reached the FedEx facility yet."

A sigh gusts into my neck. "No, it's okay. It's not like anyone on the plane would know I'm wearing the same thing two days in a row, and no one at work will notice or care. Except maybe that bitchy receptionist who covers the swing shift and always has a boutonniere in his lapel. I keep wanting to tell him, dude, who the hell do you think you're going to impress at midnight, the BMETs and maintenance staff?" Lips nibble along my jawline. "I know I promised you a romantic dinner and all that, but would it be cool with you if I cancel our reservation and we just order in?"

Burying my mouth in her hair, I smile. "Of course, chérie. It's too cold to go out, and besides, you did say you intended to fuck me senseless until we have to leave in the morning."

"Done and done." She kisses her way down my throat. "You brought a change of clothes, didn't you."

"Well, yes. A blouse and underwear, anyway. And my toothbrush. You didn't exactly give me much time to get ready."

"That's because this was supposed to be a fun trip. Unexpected. Out of the blue. It's called being spontaneous, Ms. Needs to Plan Obsessively for Every Contingency."

"And yet I'm not the one fretting about wearing yesterday's outfit. It's called being an adult, Ms. Gives in at Every Opportunity to Her Questionable Impulse Control. 'Lack of preparation on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.'"

Rolling on top of me, snaking her hips between my legs, Cosima rests her slight weight on her elbows and leans in to kiss me deeply. "Do I want to know which wingnut internet forum you read that in?"

"Just because I think it prudent to take certain precautions doesn't make me a 'wingnut.'" With my fingertips I caress the little depressions on either side of the base of her spine; her hips undulate against mine in response, to very pleasant effect.

"I didn't say that _you_ were a wingnut, but you do seem to have drunk some of their Kool-Aid. Like your ginormous cabinet stuffed full of medical supplies, or the whatchacallit, the bug-out bag in your car. Next you'll be storing water containers and bins of that scary dehydrated food that has like a 25-year shelf life down in the garage."

"Euh..."

"No way, really?"

"Not containers, exactly, but I do have an emergency water filtration system in the pantry and rainwater collection barrels out on the terrace. Much more practical than having to carry water up ten flights of stairs since the power would probably be out as well."

"What, no freeze dried beef Stroganoff and crates of gray-market MREs?"

I make a face at her. "I actually thought about it. But have you ever tried one of those packets? They taste dreadful and the consistency is just... _pouah!_ "

"So what are we going to eat when the end of the world comes?"

"If it happens anytime soon, wine, cheese and dried fruit. And Nutella. Costco just had a special sale."

She collapses into my neck, giggling. "That'll be like the Frenchest zombie apocalypse ever. How about I get you a crossbow for Christmas and start calling you Daryl?"

"No crossbow, please, and I emphatically refuse to answer to 'Daryl.' But a case of practice ammo would be nice."

"Ammo?" Her head pops up. "Do you seriously have a gun?"

I caress the curve of her cheek, smiling at her expression, which is equal parts startled, appalled and intrigued. "Yes. A Sig Sauer P938. It was Diana's suggesion, after I'd had the chance to try out a number of different guns. She said it was a good compromise between accuracy, stopping power and conceal — "

"Wait, who's Diana?"

"Diana is one of the instructors at the Dyad firing range. Which you would know is in the sub-basement of the main building if you had paid attention at all during your orientation tour."

"Diaaaaaaaaana," she says with a leer and an annoyingly sing-songy tone of voice. "So is she hot?"

"She's very... fit."

Cosima raises an eyebrow. "Fit? 'Fit' is how you describe your personal trainer at the gym or a Secret Service agent or the cute UPS delivery guy. Come on, spill, what does she look like?"

I kiss her on the tip of her nose, making her eyes cross briefly. "Not that it matters, since her appearance has nothing to do with her effectiveness as a shooting instructor, but she's about my height, though much more muscular. Dark hair in a ponytail, probably shoulder length when it's down. Very upright bearing — former military, I believe. Attractive in a rather severe way. And very fit."

"Hrmph. She's probably totally crushing on you. Maybe I should drop by during one of your lessons, make sure she's not putting the moves on my girl."

"Maybe you should join me. It wouldn't hurt for you to learn how to handle firearms. And I think I would know if she were 'putting the moves' on me. Diana's very professional. She says I'm a natural."

"I'll bet she does. A natural _what_ , is the question."

"She offered to fit me with a holster that wouldn't show under even the shortest skirts I own, but said she would have to come over to my place to check out my wardrobe and take measurements personally."

"Now you're totally fucking with me, aren't you."

Kissing her, I nibble at her lower lip, tugging gently. "Yes. But I meant it about joining me for my lessons. You might enjoy it — I was surprised to realize that I find shooting remarkably relaxing, even therapeutic."

She rests her forehead against mine. "Therapy for me is doing yoga and smoking weed. But I'll think about it, at least to keep an eye on you. Not that you're ever _not_ hot, Dr. Cormier, but just watching you fondling a gun is probably enough to make like every person there ready to come in his or her pants."

"And you would defend my honor by being there to prevent my shooting session from devolving into an orgy?"

"Gotta make sure I claim my territory. By the time we leave the place, every man would be hard as a rock and every woman would be soaking wet and aching, and every damn one of them would know that you're mine."

"Sometimes you say the sweetest things."

" 'd rather taste the sweetest things. One of them, anyway." She starts to kiss her way lower.

"Cosima?"

Clever lips and teeth find a highly sensitive spot. "Yes, Delphine?"

"Don't you think you should call the restaurant to cancel our reservation first?"

She bites down harder, making me arch and gasp. "Always have to be the responsible one, don't you."


	5. Chapter 5

The little kitchen table is completely covered with open containers from On's. There's no room for our water or wine glasses, so they balance precariously on the rather rickety barstool pulled up next to us. We've already demolished most of the food and are picking leisurely through the rest.

"That has shrimp in it," I remind Cosima as she delves into the remains of the mango salad.

"I know, I know. I'll eat around them." And she does, scooping out a substantial pile of shredded mango without picking up a single tiny dried shrimp; she swirls the bright orange tangle in the lime vinaigrette, then pops it into her mouth, chewing with evident relish.

"How do you do that?" I marvel, struggling with my fried mackerel until she comes to my rescue, pressing the tips of her chopsticks down and spreading them in a reverse-pincer motion that deftly separates the fish into small morsels. She picks up one of the pieces and holds it out to me, teasingly moving it away until I grab her wrist so I can capture the bite of tender, oily flesh in its crispy coating.

"Lots and lots of Chinese takeout growing up," she says with a grin. "Neither of my parents was much into cooking. Chinese food was cheap and fast, and no matter what city we lived in, there was always some awesome little hole in the wall nearby. Had a huge thing for sushi when I was in high school, until I went full-on vegetarian. And I dated this really cute Korean guy for a while when I was working on my Master's. His mom loved me, for whatever reason; even after I broke up with him, she invited me over for dinner a couple times a month for years. Anyway, she taught me how to refine my technique — I can pick up, like, individual mung beans if I want to."

"I'm getting better at it, I think." Though right now the chopsticks seem obdurately determined to belie my words, winding up hopelessly crossed.

"Here," she reaches over to steady my hand before I drop the flimsy wooden implements. "Brace the bottom one under the base of your thumb and against your third finger. Then hold the top one like a pencil — yeah, like that, near the end so you get better leverage; that's the only one that should move."

Experimenting, I try picking up a few different things, including the lid from a plastic condiment cup of fish sauce and a peanut out of the meing kum. I am immensely pleased to find that my dexterity has instantly improved. "That's so much easier than trying to manipulate both of them at the same time. Thank you, chérie."

Cosima angles across the table to kiss me. I yield all too willingly to the delicious assault, gently letting the spicy, sweet, sour and bitter flavors of her mouth mingle with mine. "Hmmm, fishy," she murmurs against my lips. I can't help snickering, until she rolls her eyes and slides one hand behind my neck, pulling me closer. "Do I want to know what's so funny?"

"It's very silly."

"Try me."

"I was thinking of those stupid jokes boys used to tell in collège, what you would call middle school. About lesbians, of which they knew nothing, naturally."

"Ha! Even French boys do that, huh? Though it's not like most of them know much more about lesbians or even women in general when they grow up. Trust me, I've heard them all. Like, what's the definition of confusion?"

"What?"

"Ten blind lesbians in a fish market. But really, I've never met a pussy that actually smelled like fish — if it did, there'd probably have to be something medically wrong with the woman, or she would have to be like constitutionally opposed to regular bathing, in which case no way would I go down on her. What's the difference between a lesbian and a bowling ball?"

'"Euh... I don't know?"

"You can only get three fingers into the bowling ball. What did one lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire?"

I start laughing, not because the jokes are especially funny but because of the gleefully mischievous expression animating and illuminating her face. "What?"

"'Same time next month?' What do you call a lesbian with really big — "

Taking a large swallow of wine, I lean over and stop what threatens to become a torrent in the most effective manner I know.

"Mmm, that's much better." Her tongue caresses mine softly, slowly. "How do you do that?"

With the tip of my tongue I explore the roof of her mouth, the pillowy inside curves of her lips. "Do what, chérie?"

"You always pick exactly the right wine to go with whatever we're eating."

"That's very American, I think."

"What is?"

"The preoccupation with making a big fuss about wine, turning everything into a ritual. For us, it's just something nice to drink. But it does help to know a bit about the characteristics of both the food and the wine. Since we're having Thai food, you need something that can handle spice and heat and a bunch of different, really bold flavors. Too much alcohol would fight with that, and then you also want a touch of sweetness, so this Riesling works well. But Prosecco or Gewürztraminer would have been lovely, too."

"I could call the delivery dude again and slip him another fifty to go back to the wine shop for a couple bottles."

My lips are so sensitive I can count her pulse in hers. "I don't know. After what he saw earlier, we might not even have to bribe him. But we'll be finished with dinner long before he can get it here."

"It's not food that I want to pair it with."

The involuntary shudder that works its way through me feeds into the rumbling purr that seems to originate from my gut. Abruptly I break our kiss and stand up, holding out a hand to her. Cosima gets to her feet, smoothly closing the short distance between us and pressing her naked body against mine, the heat of her searing me, the scent and feel of her overwhelming my senses. Hard nipples spring against the lower curve of my breasts. My hands roam up and down the warm silky length of her back, caressing the butterfly wings of her shoulder blades, the supple columns of muscle on either side of her spine, the swells of her hips, the firm rounds of her ass. Her hands wind into my hair, stroking, lightly caressing my scalp, causing little electric tremors to skitter over my skin.

Nibbling my way down her neck, I bend to visit the tops of her breasts with feather-light whispery kisses. "I think," I say, dancing my tongue lower and then fluttering it teasingly away, "that we need to resume inspecting your toy collection. We should make sure that everything is in working order and able to withstand the rigors of shipping, you know."

She arches toward me with a gasping moan. "Dr. Cormier, I think that you are absolutely right."


	6. Chapter 6

The knocking is more insistent this time.

"Move along," she says loudly, though her words are muffled against my throat. "These aren't the 'droids you're looking for."

I smile, brushing my lips over the varied textures of her intricate dreads. My hands roam up and down her back, gliding over sweat-cooling skin and the delicate taper of her waist. Curling my legs around hers, I caress her calves with one foot, every slightest motion lending to the endless aftershocks still quaking through our tightly conjoined bodies. "Your Jedi mind tricks would probably be more effective if you hadn't spent the last hour or so making sure that everyone within a quarter-kilometer radius knows your name."

"Totally your fault." Tipping up her head, Cosima kisses me.

My mouth opens eagerly to her invocation, our tongues tangling together in a languid, sinuous dance. She catches my lower lip in her teeth, nibbling carefully until I make her let go, laughing, by sneakily licking the end of her nose. "Oh, yes? And just how is it my fault?"

"Because, Dr. Cormier, you are phenomenally brilliant, impossibly stunning and incomparably, eminently, superlatively fuckable. And," her voice drops into its huskiest range, "you are mine, mine, mine."

Warmth unfurls through my chest and belly as though from the rays of a tiny glowing sun. I tighten my hold on her, loving the way her slender form melds into me. Never breaking our kiss, she shifts her weight up onto her elbows, her hips resuming a slow inexorable rock and grind. Instantly I move to match her rhythm, enveloping her in arousal that has not even come close to subsiding.

"Cosima?" The once tentative knocking becomes an emphatic pounding. "Cosima, it's Matt."

She freezes mid-thrust, then ducks her head, burrowing into the curve of my neck. "Shit."

I reach down to pinch her on one buttock. "It doesn't sound like he's going to give up. You'd better see what he wants."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbles. "Sorry, babe. The sooner I get rid of him, the sooner we can get back to — "

"Being incomparable?" I tease.

"Fuck, yeah." A sigh gusts across the top of my chest. Stealing a swift kiss, she carefully disengages, leaving me with a hungrily aching void and a trickle of wet heat. I hand her her glasses, which have somehow wound up on the nightstand on my side of the bed. Stretching decadently amidst the hopelessly disordered sheets and duvet, my body reverberating with unslaked desire, I watch with a half-lidded gaze as she picks up my abandoned shirt from the floor and dons it as a makeshift robe.

Her bare feet scuff over rugs, then slap softly against floorboards. I hear the door open. "Matt. Hey."

Somehow I doubt that the awkward boy will be able to discern the lukewarm welcome and patent lack of encouragement in her voice.

"Um, hi, Cosima. You said to come by? To check out your furniture?"

I picture his eyes rounding as he tries not to stare. The hem of my shirt falls to just past the upper thigh on her; even if she has it buttoned, it leaves very little to the imagination.

It certainly will not cover up what she's wearing at her hips.

"Yeeeeahhhhh, right, I did, didn't I. Listen, this is, like, kinda not such a great time. Tell you what. When we head out in the morning, I'll leave the door unlocked. Anything that's not boxed or labeled is up for grabs. Let Amy and Justin know, too, and whoever else is around. Just do me a favor — lock up behind you and leave the key with the super once you guys are done, yeah?"

"Uh, sure. Um. Would it be okay if... if... "

"If ... ?" I can see in my mind's eye the exact tilt of her head, the arch of her eyebrows, the widening of her eyes.

"If I could have your, uh... the bed?"

Surely she is smiling at that, the impish grin that lights her face and bares nearly all her upper teeth. "No problem. About time you upgraded from your old futon, anyway. Sleeping on one of those is, like, hella bad for your back." There is a low rumble of nearly inaudible mumbling. "You got it, dude. Um, don't come over until after 10:00, 'kay? Good night." The door closes with a quiet but emphatic click, and for once she actually throws the deadbolt.

When she returns to the bedroom alcove, I inhale with pleasure at the sight of her. My shirt hangs open, skimming high rounded breasts. The drape of dark gray fabric hints at the indent of her waist and emphasizes the decided femininity of her frame that contrasts sharply with the aggressive jut of her favorite accoutrement. Which I will happily admit is rapidly becoming my favorite as well.

Letting the shirt slip from her shoulders, Cosima clambers back into bed, hampered only slightly by the harness and its heavy protrusion; true to its custom-made nature, the harness conforms to her curves like a glove, moving and flexing with her without binding at all. Sitting back on her heels, she smiles down at me, letting her eyes rove over the entire length of my body. "Damn, Dr. Cormier."

My fingers reach out of their own accord, lightly stroking velvet skin where it intersects with buttery soft black leather. Tremors ripple visibly through the muscles of her legs and torso. That my barest touch can elicit such an intense and immediate reaction from her never fails to thrill me.

She shivers, then bends to touch her lips to mine, bracing one hand on the curved top of the sturdy wooden headboard. "You like?" Her hips swivel suggestively.

I nod, lost in the depths of her eyes, pulling her down and eagerly opening to her.

"Then," she whispers hoarsely as she slides easily home, drawing out from me a long, low, wanton moan, "far be it from me to keep the two of you apart."

***********************************************************************************************

Cosima lies half beside, half atop me, one leg nestled between mine, our bodies interlocked as closely as two puzzle pieces. Her dreads tickle me until I sweep them carefully to one side from where her head rests on its customary spot on my shoulder, then wrap my arm back around her. Deft fingers trace patterns between the moles and freckles on my belly, the deep muscles roiling lazily in response. Sliding my hand up to the back of her neck, I knead until she is purring like a small sleek cat whose fur has been brushed the right way for hours.

"Delphine?"

I press my lips to her forehead, tasting the salt of her skin, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Yes, Cosima?"

"I told Dr. Hammill."

Alarm sends my pulse racing. "Told her what, chérie?"

"Not about the clone thing, I'm not, like, insane," she says dryly. "I told her that I had a rare autoimmune condition and that I'd enrolled myself in a high-risk experimental study at Dyad in order to come up with a cure. She's going to try to bury the hatchet and ask Dr. Doudna to help gene-edit a population of NSG mice to my specifications to use as spontaneous tumor models."

"'Bury the hatchet'?"

"It means to make peace with — "

"No, I know what it means, I was just curious about why they were feuding in the first place."

A puff of air gently caresses my neck, her body shaking as she laughs silently. "Dr. Doudna was my advisor at Berkeley. They used to be pretty good friends and even collaborated on a few papers, but ever since I transferred to UMN, she's been pissed at Dr. Hammill for poaching me."

I join in her laughter, relief tingeing the hilarity of the absurd image of two world class ground-breaking scientists squabbling over Cosima like a pair of birds with a particularly tasty worm. "If she'll do it, that would help minimize the number of murine models that develop severe irAEs." Trailing the very tips of my nails in random spirals and squiggles over her back, I kiss the soft, smooth skin at her temple. "You're going to name these mice, too, aren't you."

"Yeah," she says, littering kisses along my jawline and down my throat. "The least I can do is acknowledge them as sentient beings, honor their contribution and treat them as humanely as possible. If you can call growing untreatable tumors in tiny, defenseless animals humane."

I tighten my hold on her. "You know they're critical for our research. At least until we have enough data to develop heuristic computational modelling and simulations."

"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Or that I'll ever stop feeling mega bad for the little guys."

Playing with the baby-fine silky hairs at her nape, I kiss the top of her head. "Can we dispense with the individual funerals, at least? We could have one big ceremony for them at the end. Once you're cured."

She chuckles as she flutters a kiss over the hollow of my throat. "Okay, okay, that was maybe taking it a little too far. And anyway there won't be any remains to cremate — the tumors and tissue samples and even what's left of the corpses will all belong to Dyad. But yeah, a ceremony would be nice. Once I'm cured." Her hand settles into its usual place below my breast, fingers curling over and lightly stroking the curve of my ribcage. "I was thinking of buying a car when we get back. The TTC system is great, but I get kind of freaked out taking the bus if I'm going somewhere leaving from work late at night, and it sucks walking back to your place if it's raining or snowing. Can't always rely on having a hot French chauffeur at my beck and call, you know."

"Ha. You may not have her services for much longer, anyway." She tilts her head back to squint at me. "I mean, I was planning to return the rental soon."

Snuggling closer, she resumes exploring and gently tormenting the sensitive places on my neck. "Only if you promise me that we can christen the back seat before you do. Can't have it feeling neglected after it had to witness what we did in the front seat, you know."

"Of course. Which car do you want to get?"

"I don't know, something small and efficient, probably electric or hybrid. It'll be weird — I've never owned a car before; I always had to borrow one from either my parents or my friends. Except for that summer..."

"Yes?"

She snorts. "The one time I knowingly got involved with a married woman. This was just after I'd graduated college and was getting ready to start my Master's program. She was, like, obscenely rich; her family was San Fran old money, the oldest of the old. Lived in this ludicrous mansion in Pacific Heights, with incredible views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay. She told me it was over between her and her husband, that they'd essentially been estranged for years but that he was preventing her from hiring a lawyer who was good enough to be able to keep him from taking her to the cleaners if they got divorced. Probably a bullshit story — as far as I know, they're still married and she's still fucking whoever she feels like. And besides, I can't imagine someone like her would have gotten married without an ironclad prenup. Anyway, I think it amused her to be able to dangle gifts and things in front of the poor little student who was making ends meet by waiting tables and taking any shitty lab assistant job available."

"What kinds of gifts?"

"Weekend trips to these outrageously expensive B&Bs in Napa Valley, jewelry that she considered more tasteful than my usual flea market and thrift store finds, shit like that. All that summer she let me use one of the cars that she kept on hand for her household staff and made me call out at work whenever she wanted to have me and oh, my god, she was my Cherie Jaffe!"

"Euh... your who?"

Cosima sits bolt upright. "Don't tell me you never watched 'The L Word'?"

"I don't think so?"

"Dude. You totally have to. It's infuriating and fascinating and an unholy narrative mess, but the women are mostly hot and Bette Porter is like my alpha bitch imaginary girlfriend."

"Do we have to watch it right now?" I slide my hand up the inside of her thigh, feeling the play of muscle as a shudder wrings through her.

A slow wicked grin curls the corner of her mouth. "Oh, no, Dr. Cormier." She leans over, her eyes glinting as she claims me with a devouring kiss. "Most definitely not right now."


	7. Chapter 7

The pulsing, irritating sound claws its way into my consciousness. I jab at the keypad to silence the annoying beeping, check the time, then slap my phone back down on the nightstand. Not gently.

"Nnnggghh. Why are you getting up in the middle of the night?" Cosima mumbles into the curve of my throat, tightening the wrap of her arm across my torso.

I kiss her temple, letting my lips linger at the delicate skin. "7:00 AM is hardly the middle of the night, chérie." Though it really is quite dark still, with the faint gray tinge coming through the windows and limning every surface with a dusky outline the only hint that dawn actually is beginning to break. "But we need to get started if we're to finish everything before we have to leave."

"Like what? Thanks to your ninja packing skills, there's almost nothing left to do."

"Well, laundry, for one thing. We should wash the sheets before your friend takes the bed."

She chuckles sleepily, a froggy sound deep in her chest. I wait for the inevitable cough, but it doesn't come. "Dude, are you kidding? Actual naked women have had actual naked sex in these sheets. We're giving him spank material for, like, weeks. Maybe even months. It'll be better than Christmas for him."

"' _Spank_ material'?"

"You know." She makes an unmistakeable gesture with her hand.

I make a face. "I did _not_ need that image in my head, thank you very much."

"Aw, c'mon, give the kid a break. Not like he's going to get action from a real girl any time soon. Probably won't until he makes his first billion and takes over the world. He's, like, twenty — it's not healthy for a guy that age to keep it bottled up."

"Phrasing... " I warn her.

"Ha! I was wondering when you were going to start quoting 'Archer.'"

"Yuuuuuuup." The unfamiliar shape of the diphthong feels odd to the muscles of my mouth but Cosima shakes with hysterical giggles anyway, so I am reasonably certain that my Lana imitation is at least passable.

Tarrying indulgently in our embrace, I take the opportunity to let my hands drift along the soft skin enveloping the lithe, lean lines of her body, caressing her buttocks and playing my fingers around the cleft at the very base of her spine. With the barest brush of my fingertips, I tease out the most sensitive spots, the ones I have spent countless hours diligently mapping, until I hear the rough catch in her lungs, feel the light quivers that run continually through her cascade into the instinctive writhing of her hips.

"Mmm, Dr. Cormier, you fight dirty," she whispers hoarsely in my ear.

Smoothly she shifts to press her thigh firmly into the apex of my legs, making me gasp. Her own arousal is immediately apparent in the glide of her sex as she rides the curve of my hip. The air around us thickens quickly with sweat and all-consuming desire as we instantly find a steady rhythm together, our mouths slack with wordless pleasure, breathless, as if listening for the signal that will release us from the unbearable tension that tautens our bodies like bowstrings.

She slips a hand down the length of my torso, squirming between our straining legs to capture and skillfully torment my aching need. Hissing and arching into her touch, my hips buck so hard they lift hers from the bed, only to be driven back down by the dolphining of her slender form; in delicious retaliation, I jerk my thigh upward, hard and repeatedly, against her heat-slick center. Low grunts and growls of exertion drip from our throats as we rocket out of control, finally tumbling over the edge and giving in to ferocious release.

Faintly I recognize that she is collapsed atop me, her head burrowed into my shoulder, mouth feeding at the pulse in my neck. I let my legs unlock their vise grip and tangle with hers, my hands softly stroking the last tremors from her flanks. Taking a long steadying gulp of air, I claim her lips with mine, losing myself in the depths of her mouth.

"Mmm. Sorry about my breath," I murmur. "Why is it that you never taste bad in the morning?" Though as always lately, like an uninvited houseguest who will not leave, there is the faint coppery tinge of blood.

"Yours isn't too bad, just a little stale." Cosima grins, running her fingers through my hair and rough-combing the sweaty strands into some semblance of order. "I could say it's because the only animal I eat is pussy."

I roll my eyes as exaggeratedly as possible so that even with her myopic vision she will not miss it. Twining my arms around her, I let my hands roam freely over the planes of her back. "It's too early for more terrible jokes, chérie."

"Fine. No one appreciates a comedian in bed." Leaning in to kiss me again, she slides her hips between my eagerly unresisting legs, provoking a soft moan from me. "If you must know, it's because of this PSA I once saw as a little kid. You know 'Peanuts,' with Charlie Brown and Snoopy?"

"Of course." The gentle rocking of her pelvis against mine is making it very difficult to concentrate on what she is saying. I am further distracted as she bends her head to make a curtain of her dreads, letting them spill around me and then trailing them slowly along my body as she moves lower. Raising my arms up over my head, hands fisting into the sheets, I open myself to her utterly, whimpering at her touch.

Settling between my legs and urging them apart with her elbows, she smiles up at me. "It was this odd video that came on one Saturday morning while I was watching cartoons. I think it was sponsored by the American Dental Association. Charlie Brown is teaching Linus and Snoopy how to brush their teeth properly, including brushing the tongue. These days I can point to a YouTube link, but for the longest time no one else I knew had ever seen it — everyone I'd mention it to was always like, are you sure you weren't smoking something back then? Anyway, because of it I've always brushed my tongue. Ergo, no morning dragon breath." Softly she kisses her way along my thighs. The air leaves my lungs for a lightheaded moment as her wickedly talented mouth puts that tongue to excellent use, along with her fingers that seem to be intent on driving as much pleasure into my body as I can possibly stand.

When it seems that all that is left of me is a puddling mess, I feebly push her away from hypersensitive tissues, urging her to crawl back up into my arms. Tasting myself all over her face, my lips part to draw her in, murmuring nonsense into our kiss. My fingers drift down to loosely capture her hand, bringing it to my mouth and pressing silent kisses into each knuckle, my tongue darting out to lave away the shining traces of my come.

Her mouth tenderly embraces mine, tongue licking delicately at the shape of each of my lips. By now the morning sun is shining brightly through the windows and skylights. She sighs. "We'd better get up. Wanna join me in the shower?"

"No. You know what will happen."

One eyebrow flickers. "Crazy filthy shower sex?"

The expression on her face is so patently hopeful that I have to laugh. "Yes, and then we will miss our flight and you, my dear Ms. Niehaus, will have to explain to Leekie not only why we are far later than we had planned to be but also why you have not had your initial post-injection IgE assay and CBC run on time. And," I say as severely as possible, "since we don't have my recirculating NASA shower here, we will waste hundreds of liters of water by the time we're finished."

"Okay, okay," she grumbles. "You can go first. I'm going to see if Kevin will sell me a bit of his latest crop." She smiles at my confusion. "Guy who lives in the basement apartment. He's got a massive hydroponic setup down there. Going to be able to pay his way through school selling weed — he used to be my main supplier until I hooked up with this insanely hot French doctor who expedited my MMAR license."

"Very convenient, isn't it?"

Her hands wander lower as she pulls my hips tightly against hers. "Almost too good to be true," she murmurs against my lips.

"Brat." I swat her lightly on the behind, smiling as she furrows her brow in mock dismay.

Cosima kisses me again, then rolls nimbly to her feet, quickly visiting the bathroom and then once more finding and shrugging her way into my now thoroughly disreputable shirt while she texts a message on her phone. "Just hope he's got something kinda mild. The last shit I got from him was a pure sativa strain called Zeus that put me in couchlock for, like, nine hours straight."

"Yes, please," I say dryly. "I've seen you in that state before and I have no wish to repeat the experience." She sticks out her tongue at me, thumbs flying over her screen. Stretching luxuriously, pleasantly sore in all the right places, I reluctantly leave the warmth and softness of the bed, shiver the few steps to the small bathroom with its shoehorned-in plumbing, then let the shower run to heat up while I brush my teeth. Just before rinsing, I think, _why not?_ , and brush the surface of my tongue. It takes a bit of concentration to control my gag reflex, but I have to admit that my mouth does seem fresher than usual once I'm done.

I nearly groan with pleasure as the hot water courses over me, lingering under the spray somewhat longer than I had intended. Lathering up her pouf with a dollop of gel, the scent of rosemary and mint rises with the steam surrounding me, instantly recalling me to the days when we had just started to get to know one another, when I had leaped headlong off the cliff and fallen hopelessly in love with this beautiful, brilliant, enigmatic girl. By the time I finally step out of the shower, I am humming to myself.

Remembering the hardness of Minneapolis' water, I slather lotion over my skin before it is entirely dry, then wrap myself in a towel. Quickly I apply eye shadow, mascara and a swipe of lipstick from my minimalist makeup kit. Rough-drying my hair with another towel and fluffing the damp strands with my fingers, I frown, knowing that it will likely be a riotous cloud by the end of the day, but there is little to be done about it.

"Sorry I took so long, chérie, but... "

My voice trails off at the sight of her standing in front of her full-length mirror. She is wearing the oxblood colored sleeveless chiffon dress with beaded collar that she had worn to our first dinner together. Our first date, as it turned out, though I hadn't realized it at the time.

It is wrinkled and remarkably dusty, probably having been stuffed under the bed or some other piece of furniture where she'd found it. But what brings me to a halt is not its appearance, but its fit.

The gauzy fabric that once bloused over and skimmed slim but lush curves now hangs limply, emphasizing how much weight Cosima must have lost since then — my mind forcibly pushes away the word _cachexia_ — so gradually that I hadn't noticed.

"Chérie?" I say quietly, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist.

She leans her head back against my shoulder, running the fingers of one hand over my forearm as she contemplates her reflection. "Fuck, Delphine. I'm really dying, aren't I?"

Something wrenches in my chest. I tighten my hold on her, kissing her temple softly. _Not as long as I have anything to do about it._


End file.
